


but when he sparkles (the earth begins to sway)

by nixtothou



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is a sappy drunk confirmed, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fluff, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Slow Dancing, Unresolved Romantic Tension, no beta we discorporate like aziraphale, this is so self indulgent i hate me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:07:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22860721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nixtothou/pseuds/nixtothou
Summary: "’S very respectable. Very s’phisticated. Requires a lot of talent, that," Crowley insists, even as his hands are maneuvered- one's on Aziraphale's shoulder, the other- well- oh. Aziraphale's holding it. His hand's really warm. Really comforting. Soothing. There's another hand on Crowley's waist, too, and he's suddenly aware of how warm Aziraphale is. How their legs are slotted in between each other's, how their chests are mere centimetres away and how Crowley's staring at Aziraphale's brilliant, beautiful, bright blue eyes.There’s liquid courage jolting through his veins. It would be so easy, he thinks, to put an end to this silly boundary they’d built up between them. A boundary carefully built over six thousand years of- of whatever they are. Acquaintances. Adversaries. Friends. Something more.//Or: in which Aziraphale and Crowley dance around each other, both literally and figuratively.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 153





	but when he sparkles (the earth begins to sway)

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first work in the fandom so. I'm sorry if the characterizations are a bit wonky !! Im not used to writing them yet ahahah.
> 
> Anyways! I hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> Title comes from the musical Falsettos - What More Can I Say?

It had happened on a Thursday.

It’s not uncommon for Aziraphale and Crowley to meet up for drinks in the former’s back room, even less so now that they don’t have the constant threat of their respective head offices looming over their heads. And they’d been careful, at first, wary and a little skittish with their eyes flitting around in search of a never-present threat.

But it’s been three months since The World Hadn’t Ended, and it’s been three months since The Not-Execution, and it’s been more than enough time for them to learn to put their guard down just a little bit.

So it’s a Thursday, and they’re in the backroom, and the blinds are firmly shut and the door’s been miracled locked. And Crowley’s sitting back on the sofa and nursing a glass of Malbec, eyes trained on the way Aziraphale seems to _ glow _ underneath the yellowed light.

“’S a matter of fact,” Aziraphale is saying, hand wrapped around a wineglass raised as he looks flatly at Crowley, “I do know how to dance.”

He does, he really does— he’d learned the Gavotte at The Very Secret, Very Under-wraps Discreet Gentleman’s Club, picked up a waltz or two over the years— he says so, to Crowley, pale eyebrows furrowed and his tongue stumbling around the words, leaning forward with the smell of fine wine tinging his breath.

_ You’re incredible and I really want to kiss you,  _ Crowley wants to say. The words are on the tip of his tongue but instead he’s reeling back and raising his eyebrows at the angel, drunk enough to think it but smart and sober enough to not voice his thoughts out loud. Instead he says, “An angel, dancing,” in mild disbelief. He sways in his seat and sips from his half-filled glass. “Isn’t tha’… probi… prohib… prori—” he waves dubiously at the air, nose scrunching, “ _ Not allowed _ . Or somethin’?”

Aziraphale scowls.

It looks more like an indignant pout, really, and Crowley isn’t even certain if Aziraphale’s either physically or emotionally capable of flashing an honest-to-Someone, completely hundred-percent sincere scowls and everything it entailed. He clears his throat. “I’ll have you know m’dearest,” Aziraphale says straightening up, though it does nothing to hide the flush on his cheeks or the weight of the alcohol on his frame, “I’d some’un teach me.”

Crowley tries not to smile. “Really.”

“’N I’m rather good at it, if I do say so myself.” Aziraphale puffs his chest proudly, a pleased smile on his face., “’N I do,” he pauses, “Say so myself.”

Crowley’s losing his personal Try Not To Smile Or Swoon Or Maybe Cry Challenge, if the way his mouth is lazily stretching into a stupid, easy grin, and the way his corporation’s heart is skipping several beats in his chest, and the way his knees feel weak even if he’s sitting sprawled across Aziraphale’s sofa is any indication. Aziraphale’s head is still held high, and he’s taking steady sips from his glass of wine.

And, well, Crowley doesn’t  _ think _ he’s wasted enough that the Thoughts he’d normally keep locked away and buried in the deepest crannies of his essence are starting to break out of their chains and slither onto the forefronts of his mind. The Thoughts about Aziraphale’s pretty, pretty blue eyes sparkling underneath the bookshop’s back room’s dim lighting, of his warm hands and his dimples and his laugh lines, his sun-bright smile and his sweetness, his thoughtfulness, his sass—

Well. Seems he is. Wasted enough.

“Show it to me then,” Crowley blurts out.

He freezes the moment the words are rushing out of his mouth, and dread pools in the cavity of his human chest.

Aziraphale blinks and looks at him.

Azraphale’s cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, but he’s nowhere near  _ pissed _ . He’s scrunching his nose, too. Adorable. His lips are pale pink and look pillowy-soft and probably taste like expensive red wine. Crowley wants to smush his cheeks, hold the warmth of them between his chilled palms, and kiss him senseless. Maybe chase the oaky aftertaste of the bottle of Malbec they’re sharing.

Crowley does none of these. He simply stares back.   
  
"Mm," Aziraphale says vaguely. Then he sets his drink aside, staggering to his feet.

He sways as he walks closer to Crowley. He sways in that clumsy, stumble-y, I'm-kinda-drunk-and-my-motor-coordination’s-failing kind of way, not like how Crowley saunters about, almost swaggering if he was doing it on purpose. Then he grabs Crowley's hand, tugging him upwards. Crowley can feel his cheeks redden.   
  
"Wh're you doin', Angel," Crowley murmurs. He lets himself get pulled out of his seat anyway.   
  
"Teaching, my dear," Aziraphale says simply, a slight giggle in his voice. "Teachin' you." He looks silly, Crowley thinks. He can barely even stand on his own two feet.   
  
"Ridiculousss. I know how ta... how to dancsssse."   
  
"S not like your strange kicking and jerking thing."   
  
Crowley gasps, only mostly fake-offended, and the alcohol coaxes him into leaning even closer to the angel. He’s almost burying his face in the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale smells like oak bookshelves and old, yellowed pages and hot cocoa. And also a hint of the new perfume his barber had suggested.

"’S very respectable. Very s’phisticated. Requires a lot of talent, that," Crowley insists, even as his hands are maneuvered- one's on Aziraphale's shoulder, the other- well- oh. Aziraphale's holding it. His hand's really warm. Really comforting. Soothing. There's another hand on Crowley's waist, too, and he's suddenly aware of how warm Aziraphale is. How their legs are slotted in between each other's, how their chests are mere centimetres away and how Crowley's staring at Aziraphale's brilliant, beautiful, bright blue eyes.

There’s liquid courage jolting through his veins. It would be so easy, he thinks, to put an end to this silly boundary they’d built up between them. A boundary carefully built over six thousand years of- of whatever they are. Acquaintances. Adversaries. Friends. Something more.

Aziraphale yelps and stumbles into Crowley’s chest.

“S’rry,” Aziraphale mumbles. “Alcohol. Leaves me with… with two left feet, ‘m afraid.”

“Think we oughta sober up,” Crowley finds himself saying.

“S’pose so.”

Sobering up leaves an awful aftertaste on their tongues. Once Crowley’s finished screwing his face into an expression of distaste he finds himself staring past dark-tinted glasses into Aziraphale’s eyes again.   
  
They're so blue. Like the skies. Crowley could get lost in them. Could fly in the blue of them, forever, if he could. It'd be so warm and so soft.   
  
"Angel," he breathes.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes back. And he’s so near, it’s just so easy for Crowley to lean in, close the gap between them, end this millenia-old dance they’d long since mastered around each other.

But maybe taking apart the wall between them make it collapse down on them, leave them with nothing but dust and rubble and pain, irreparable and in ruins.   
  
"It's like this, my dear," Aziraphale says, pulling Crowley out of his own head, and he still isn't looking away, still isn’t pulling away. And the position's familiar to Crowley, of course, who the fuck wouldn't know the basic waltz, but he's never really found the appeal of learning it in all of civilization's 6000 years. He knows the bare bones of it, but he can't summon the words to tell Aziraphale.   
  
Aziraphale moves, leads him through the dance- _step, step, step_ , he murmurs softly into the air between them, _1, 2, 3_ , and- and he's still so close. There isn’t any music filling the air between them, thick and ripe with so many questions and words left unspoken. 

It should be awkward, without the music, with only the muffled clacking of their shoes against the carpeted floor echoing in the silence. Aziraphale hasn’t a radio, and the gramophone’s outside, and Crowley can’t muster up the motivation to pull his hand away from Aziraphale’s grasp for the one second it would take to snap his fingers and miracle the old thing to play some music.

_ One, two, three, one, two, three, _ Crowley counts in his head.

But the thing is it isn’t awkward, per say; just a little tense.

Their hands are still so tightly clasped together, warm and soft, and Crowley's scared his hands might sweat and Aziraphale might pull away-   
  
"Gack!" Aziraphale yelps when Crowley steps on his feet, and Crowley winces. He staggers out of the moment, stumbling away from Aziraphale's arms and Aziraphale's warmth.   
  
"Sorry, Angel," he says, and Aziraphale only frowns.   
  
"It's fine, my dear," he says. "Happens to everyone." They’re farther apart now. About two feet away from each other, at least. Crowley can’t help but mourn the loss of contact.   
  
"Yeah. Well." Crowley grapples for a reply. Aziraphale smiles that smile that looks like it had been made from the stars and the sun themselves. Actually, Aziraphale may as well have been made from the stars and the sun. Crowley had made stars in the palms of his hands, planets and galaxies and moons, and if Aziraphale were to ask him to pluck them all from the heavens and give them all to him, Crowley would do it in a heartbeat.

Aziraphale’s hands come up only to stop short of Crowley’s sunglasses, barely brushing the edges.

“May I..?”

“Of course, angel.”

_ Anything. Everything, for you. _

Aziraphle gently takes the glasses, folding them delicately and tucking them into the front of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley swallows.   
  
"Well, since I’d not asked the first time," Aziraphale says as he looks up, meeting Crowley’s eyes, his cheeks dusted pink, “Would you like a dance, Crowley?”   
  
Crowley's brain short circuits.

“Ngk,” he says, and snaps his fingers.

Music filters in from the other room. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand, and it’s just as warm as it had been before. He’s pulled close again, guided into their previous position.

One, two, three.

Crowley lets himself be led, as Aziraphale grips his waist, turns them around, sways slightly to the beat of the music.

One.

Aziraphale’s got his eyes closed, his lips upturned into a soft, contented smile.

Two.

Crowley’s staring.

Three.

Aziraphale is beautiful.

Crowley would hurl himself into a vat of holy water for him.

One, two, three. One, two, three. And on, and on, and on. Crowley doesn’t look away from the angel, breath stolen away, heart rate picking up. One, two, three.

“You,” Crowley whispers, “Are beautiful.”   
  
The song ends.

Aziraphale stills. Their chests are pressed together.   
  
"My dear," Aziraphale says, and Crowley's heart jackhammers. He wonders if Aziraphale can feel it, or if the heartbeat he’s feeling is really his or if it’s Aziraphale’s. He wonders if Aziraphale can feel the breath suspended in Crowley’s lungs. Aziraphale's cheeks are rosy, and his eyes may be flitting about the place, but his head's tilted up towards Crowley's anyway.   
  
"Angel," Crowley says, pulse bursting, head light. Aziraphales attention locks onto him. Aziraphale licks his lips. Crowley finds his gaze drawn to the way Aziraphale’s tongue slides over his upper lip and finds himself mirroring the angel.

Aziraphale lowers their hands, but he doesn’t pull his own away.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs into the slowly closing gap between them.

Crowley’s other hand comes up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek, thumb tracing the warm expanse of skin beneath his palm. Aziraphale’s free hand is still lingering lightly over Crowley’s waist.   
  
"Would you mind terribly..."

“Mind what?”

His gaze snaps to the floor, then the wine, then Crowley. His eyes are glassy. “If I told you I love you?”   
  
"Oh," Crowley says, putting their foreheads together. His eyes are starting to sting. Just a little. He smiles, "I wouldn't mind at all."   
  
Aziraphale’s eyes widen. His cheeks are flushed even darker now. He tightens the grip around Crowley’s waist, just so, pulling him just a tad closer. "Are you-" he stammers. Their noses brush. "Do you mean- well-”   
  
"Aziraphale." Crowley's grip around Aziraphale's hand tightens, just enough to squeeze reassuringly. "Angel. May I kiss you?"

The hand holding Aziraphale’s shifts, lacing their fingers together.  
  
_I’d really like to kiss you. Have for so long now. Millenia._  
  
Aziraphale smiles back, and Crowley feels the warmth blooming in his stomach erupt, rushing up to his chest where his heart is racing.

"Of course, my love.”   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and comments would be cool jdjdbdj anyways I hope you have a great day !!


End file.
